Book Recommendations and Reviews

One of the characters in Laura Long's book, Out of Peel Tree, says this about those who leave West Virginia: "Wanting to leave is part of being a West-by-god Virginian. Even our state song is about leaving and pining to come back." And indeed, this seems to be the motto of all the characters in Long's first novel, which, in many ways, reads like a collection of short stories instead of a plot told in linear form. In this work, we learn about a woman who finds out her husband's secret past, a reckless, (and in many ways, desperate) teenage runaway who plans a new life far away from her home, and a teenage boy who pines away for a girl who doesn't love him back. Connected loosely by family ties and the landscape of their home of rural West Virginia, the characters' stories are also very much their own, and it's hard not to long for more of their lives than what is conveyed in these pages. Long has a rich, lyrical voice, and she avoids many of the clichés' often found in Appalachian literature by focusing on the language of music -- indeed, in spite of the characters' scattered and often rough lives, music seems to sing from the pages. And it's this song that makes this slim novel a beautiful read!

I fell in love with Tawni O'Dell's work with her first novel, Back Roads, a work set in the coal mines of Western Pennsylvania. Since that time, I have looked forward to all of O'Dell's works. (Her second book, CoalRun, is my favorite). When she came to speak at our local library two years ago, I was in heaven. And she was as great in person as she was on the page!

Her latest book, One of Us, returns to a setting that is familiar to me and to all of her fans: the Western Pennsylvania hills where coal mines lay abandoned and small towns rest in rural poverty. In this story, Dr. Sheridan Doyle, a small town boy that "made good" (a saying I heard a lot growing up about people who left my own small town, became educated, and earned a lot of money) returns to Lost Creek, the place where he is from, to take care of his aging grandfather and his mentally ill mother. During his visit, he comes face-to-face with a murder that opens up the town's dark history of violence and injustice.

O'Dell grapples with both family and local history in One of Us, introducing the Nellies (a group that echoes the history and legends of Pennsylvania's Molly Maguires) and taking on the task of describing the impact of mine disasters on small communities. Certainly, her best characters are the ones who are part of this setting: a small town detective who is both gruff and kind; an aging grandfather who is part of the town's coal mining history; an alcoholic father who is weighed down with both coal dust and personal ghosts. The main character, Sheridan Doyle ("Danny" to most of the characters in the book) is both sympathetic and interesting and the readers will find themselves rooting for him to make peace with both the town's secrets and his family's dark past.

The only "bump" that I saw in this novel was the introduction of Scarlet -- the cruel daughter of the family who owns the mines. While her part is indeed important to the overall plot of the novel, I often dreaded the chapters where her voice took over, telling the stories of her own life and her malicious perceptions of the people around her.

All in all, O'Dell's latest work is a great addition to her line of books. I will never grow tired of reading about the Pennsylvania landscape (yes, I am biased, since it's my world), and I will always be fond of the stories she tells in her pages.

I'm a product of the American Rust Belt. Having grown up in the 1980s, I watched family members lose their jobs and friends leave the little northwestern Pennsylvania town where I lived. As teenagers, we dreamed of leaving and never coming back. And some did leave. And some of us stayed.

I was one who stayed. Well, I kinda stayed. I left to go to school (there were no local colleges in the area) and returned and then took a job just across the state border. (To be honest, my 20s was a series of small moves around three counties -- too long of a story to retell here.) I now live 45 minutes from my hometown.

In The Hard Way on Purpose: Essays and Dispatches from the Rust Belt by David Giffels, the author explores the history of his own hometown, Akron, Ohio through both memoir and observation, making personal commentaries about those who decide to stay in their struggling towns and cities. His essays are both humorous and insightful, and as a reader I found myself nodding "yes" on numerous occasions in response to his insights about the landscape and people of the Rust Belt.

The main focus of Giffels' collection is, of course, Akron, Ohio, and this can be seen as he explores the specific history of his hometown, notably discussing what happens to a city when its main industries leave, often leaving a city without an identity. In the case of Akron, these industries were Goodrich and Firestone, thus making Akron's nickname, "The Rubber City" a bit problematic. He further explores his hometown's identity by focusing on famous people including Lebron James, the music group Devo, and Chrissie Hynde. Still, Giffels' collection doesn't just focus on other people; many of his stories are his own, cataloging his own stories and experiences. One piece titled "Popular Stories for Boys" chronicles his love of reading and his relationship with a book store owner. Another piece, "Lake Effect" describes the crazy (and sometimes harsh) weather conditions of northern Ohio.

My favorite essay, however, is titled "Do Not Cry For Me, Arizona" where he discusses the perception that some believe the term "Rust Belt" is overused, dated, and even a bit tired. To this, Giffels responds, "We need to be the Rust Belt. We've paid so dearly for that designation that we deserve to have it as our own and to allow it to represent the fullness of its story. It's our blues."

I loved The Hard Way on Purpose: Essays and Dispatches from the Rust Belt, namely because I am from the Rust Belt (although, a much more rural part), and as a reader I could see the stubborn pride that shined through Giffels' stories and recollections.

It's 1961, and after a family tragedy rocks her life, Brigid Howley, along with her mother, father, and little brother find themselves living with her strong-willed grandmother and sick grandfather. What follows this move, in Natalie S. Harnett's debut novel, The Hollow Ground, is a coming-of-age story set in the Anthracite region of Pennsylvania. Through a grisly discovery, young Brigid must not only come to terms with her fragile homelife, but her family's past as well.

What first attracted me to Harnett's novel was the setting. Set against the backdrop of the underground coal mines in eastern Pennsylvania, the very idea that the world could give out underneath the characters' feet at any moment (and does, in some scenes) adds to the tension in the story. Furthermore, the coal mining history is imperative to both the plot and the character development. Coal seems to seep through the very pores of the characters' skin and certainly, there are places in the book, where I know that the characters actually have coal veins in their bodies.

Still, as I read Harnett's book, I became so enveloped in the characters' lives, that I almost (I say almost because it is impossible to totally disregard the sense of place in this book) forgot the setting and instead focused on the characters' struggles, hopes and dreams. The main character, Brigid, is appealing -- sharp and brazen, she is determined to find her way through her sullen surroundings. In general, all the characters, both Brigid's family members and her friends, are flawed and not always likeable, but that makes them even more realistic in this gritty world.

Harnett's book is inspired by the underground mine fires of Centralia and Carbondale. I say inspired because the book starts in 1961, one year before the start and/or discovery of the Centralia fire. Thus, a reader who knows the history of this particular incident should not enter the novel thinking that the author is retelling the story of this specific coal fire. Instead, she is incorporating the symbolism of what an underground mine fire does -- devours silently, only flaring at times when the conditions are right.A great first book by Natalie S. Harnett -- I am eager to see her follow up works. For more information on TheHollow Ground, see Harnett's website, which features samples and background information.

We need more poetry about the world of waitressing. I'm saying this as a former waitress (I was a lousy waitress, by the way) and as a lover of Jan Beatty's waitress poems, a favorite being "A Waitresses' Instructions on Tipping or Get the Cash Up and Don't Waste My Time." This is why I was happy to find Waiting at the Dead End Diner by Rebecca Schumejda.

In this book, the poet enters the Dead End Diner as a waitress. While I am always hesitant to say that the "I" in any poem is the poet, in this case it's probably true, since the book synopsis says that while Schumejda was working on this book, "she put her apron back on and waited tables, discovering that her respect for the industry is unwavering." Throughout this collection, the reader meets the waitresses, the cooks, the regulars, and even the boss of the Dead End Diner, all the while exploring both the workplace and the personal trials and tribulations of her characters.

Certainly, some readers would say that the focus of this collection is on the work of the restaurant industry, and in some ways, this is true. Many poems display the day-to-day work of waitresses balancing trays and busboys cleaning off tables. Others tell more specific stories. In one poem, "The Leaf Pepper Special" we learn that the waitresses encourage customers to order the cook's special "a butternut squash soup/a hamburger with American cheese/and red velvet cake with chocolate icing" because Rick has promised a twelve-pack "for the waitress who sells the most." In other poems, we learn the distasteful task of dealing with rude customers (a normal part of a waitress's job, I am afraid). One image that has stuck with me is found in "Tip" where the narrator lists some of the strangest tips she has ever received including "scratch-off lottery tickets, two shiny/pennies left heads up, a handful of/condoms, a golden hundred dollar Monopoly bill" but then ends her list describing a truck driver who talked to her about missing his kids, and then leaves her "a twenty for listening and a/tiny tooth nested on a coffee spoon."

Still, it's the people who take center stage of this collection. We meet Carlos, who busses tables in order to get his wife and children to the United States. We meet Rick, the cook, a brash man who shouts racist comments but also has a secret life as a cross dresser. We meet Kitty, a regular who "always wears shirts adorned with cats/and white laceless tennis shoes with/handmade Puff Paint kitchens on the front." We meet Maggie who has been a waitress for so long that she considers herself "tough as razors." We meet the owner's wife, whose presence disrupts the kitchen so that "either scatter to the darkest corners/ like roaches or buzz around like bees." Indeed, this collection could easily be read as a novel in verse, with the main character navigating a single story line throughout the book while exploring both the outer conflicts of the setting and the inner conflicts of the characters themselves.

Schumejda's poetic language is blunt and sometimes, harsh. At first glance it may seem that Waiting at the Dead End Diner lacks the lyrical line found in much of the music of today's poem. But then, the reader will realize that there is music here: it's the hard edge of working-class life that sings with a stubborn but hopeful melody all of its own.

Growing up, I knew of the passenger pigeon -- it was the poster child (or poster animal?) speaking out against extinction. Martha, the last passenger pigeon, was pictured in our fourth grade science textbook as a warning about what the world could do to animals, and I remember staring at the photo and thinking of the mourning doves that cooed outside my bedroom windows and wondering if they could also become extinct.

I am reminded of the passenger pigeon in other ways as well. On my way to my brother's house in Forest County, Pennsylvania, I pass through a small village named Pigeon, so named because of the large flocks of passenger pigeons that once flew through the area.

Still, I didn't really know anything about the passenger pigeon until I read Joel Greenberg's A Feathered River Across the Sky: The Passenger Pigeon's Flight to Extinction. Through concise and thorough research, Greenberg chronicles the world of the passenger pigeon, from the times when flocks blocked out the sun to the sky to the death of Martha, in 1914.

Greenberg starts off his book by explaining the life of this important bird: "At the time of that Europeans first arrived in North America, passenger pigeons likely numbered anywhere from three to five billion. It was the most abundant bird on the continent, if not the planet, and may well have comprised 25 to 40 percent of North America's bird life." Numbers, of course, don't necessarily paint a picture for the reader, but then Greenberg goes on to present a vivid image of the population of the passenger pigeon: "Famed naturalist John James Audubon recorded a pigeon flight along the Ohio River that eclipsed the sun for three days."

It seems hard to believe that a bird that commanded such a presence could become extinct at the hands of humans. But it did. Greenberg spends chapters detailing the complex relationship of the passenger pigeon to Americans. Not only does he describe the different ways mankind killed the passenger pigeon, but he also records their defenders, those who studied and/or celebrated the bird's presence. Furthermore, he includes a chapter that reports the last great nesting sites -- many in northern Pennsylvania.

Of course, no book about the passenger pigeon would be complete without the role of Martha, the last passenger pigeon who died in the Cincinnati Zoo in 1914. Martha had not been the only passenger pigeon at the zoo; however, as Greenberg explains, "As the passing years took their toll, she watched the members of the flock slowly disappear." Indeed, Greenberg goes on to explain, "It is easy to become anthropomorphic about Martha's situation as the idea of impending aloneness so absolute is heartrending." Greenberg wraps up his book with a chapter titled "Extinction and Beyond" that not only explores the rumors of passenger pigeons after Martha's death, but also outlines other animals that are endangered and/or threatened. It's a chapter that is especially interesting to me, as he mentions the slow demise of America's Little Brown Bat, a mammal that once commanded the small town Pennsylvania skies at dusk. At one time, I would see hundreds of bats in the twilight skies. This year, I have seen one.

At the Roger Tory Peterson Institute's 2014 Bird Fest, I had the pleasure of meeting Joel Greenberg. While I didn't get to hear his formal talk, he did go on one of the same bird walks I did, (see the blog post that details exactly what we saw) and we had the chance to chat briefly about nature writing, Aldo Leopold (his favorite!) and Barbara Hurd (one of my favorites!). For more information about Greenberg and his work, see his homepage.

Anyone who regularly keeps up with my writing (including my book reviews and blog) knows that I love my Pennsylvania working-class landscape. It's been said that Pennsylvania retains its natives more than any other state in the union and I can understand why -- there's something in the coal patches and rust belt remnants that works its way into our skin and never lets go. And it's this "something" that made me pick up Here and There: Reading Pennsylvania's Working Landscape by Bill Conlogue.

Conlogue's book is a series of essays (written as chapters) that explore the history and the land of Anthracite Pennsylvania. In his introduction, he explains that the book is written as "narrative scholarship," a type of writing that is often found troublesome in the academic world for various reasons. Although I was not familiar with this particular term, as I read through the book, I couldn't help but think that Conlogue is writing in a type of creative (or literary) nonfiction, as he blends personal narratives with historical and literary resources. For instance, he often recounts his own personal memories of growing up in dairy farm in eastern Pennsylvania or attending a college in coal-mining country and then blends these memories with current issues regarding the environment.

Conlogue's main goal is to explore a specific place (in this case, eastern Pennsylvania) and in essence, celebrate that place whether it's through personal stories, historical documents, poetry, and recent environmental studies. He explains, "To assume that every place can be any place is to endanger all places." Indeed, every chapter takes on a specific part of eastern Pennsylvania. For instance, in one chapter titled "Merwin and Mining" Conlogue investigates the trauma of coal mining -- both on humans and on the land -- using the poetry of W.S. Merwin and Jay Parini as lenses for looking at history and landscape. In another chapter, he discusses the landscape scars of the past including leftover mine debris in culm banks and acid mine drainage. (He also cites many poems by Sherry Fairchok, who wrote the book, Palace of Ashes, is one of my all time favorite contemporary poetry books).

It seems that when studying the landscape of eastern Pennsylvania, that the state's coal mining history often takes center stage. Conlogue, however, spends considerable time examining the dairy/farming industry -- a part of Pennsylvania's working-class world that is often overlooked. Because he grew up on a dairy farm, he is able to offer personal stories and insights into the world of the Pennsylvania farm. He also places his family's farm in the context of history, researching and explaining the slowly disappearing family farm, often through the building and demolishing of the barn. (When I was growing up, the barn that shouted the slogan, Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco was a common sign; now, I have to note that both the slogans and the barns themselves are slowly disappearing).

For my readers who love the Pennsylvanian world as much as I do, this is a book that belongs on your bookshelf! For those of you who do not necessarily have an interest in Pennsylvanian land and history, that is okay, because Conlogue's book is a must read for anyone who believes that there is a link between a land and its people.

Anthony Frame's first full-length book of poems, A Generation of Insomniacs, is a coming-of-age collection full of elegies -- elegies mourning place, elegies mourning people, elegies mourning specific time periods. Physically set in the 1990's when Kurt Cobain was King of the pop culture world, Frame's collection tackles the big themes of loss and hope all the while navigating the stark Ohio Rust Belt landscape.

One of the first poems in the collection, "How to Write a Poem in Toledo, Ohio" serves as a perfect prelude to the collection. In this poem, Frame writes, "Start with the churches, those brilliant buildings/standing at the center of every neighborhood." From these first two lines, he moves forward, giving precise directions for writing about a place including citing specific actions: "Learn how/to hop fences as a child. As an adult//learn how to hop curbs in your 4x4." He ends with this piece of advice: "If you manage//to leave, don't forget your blue collar genes." After all, he explains, "Here, we fray. Here, we rust. Remember that."Certainly, the pictures of a frayed and rusted narrator follows the reader throughout the collection, as many of the poems focus on the stark images of a time period filled with tension and loss. The collection weaves in and out of personal history that often reflects both local place and the world at large. Some poems focus on memory such as "Hate" which depicts a scuffle between two boys that ends with physical pain and injury and a narrator who says, "This city has more hate than broken windows." In another poem, "Why I Hate the Sunrise," the narrator thinks back to his perception of war as a memory of a teacher who wheels a television to her classroom to show "A green sun exploding over the darkened sky/ of Baghdad, surrounded by cascading comets."Still, most of the poems take on a more lyrical, instead of narrative voice, often mourning different losses. The time period of this collection focuses on the early 1990's and the poem, "Are You Ready" finds a group of friends toasting the new millennial with the narrator cataloging their futures -- futures he cannot yet know: "Greg will get kicked out of Iraq for loving/a man. He'll move to Maine/hiding himself/among snow and foster children./Eric will find salvation in a church run//by a schizophrenic Christ, the rapture always/ almost here. Jason will lose himself somewhere/on the fringes of Route 66. The Pacific Ocean/forever a fantasy, he'll come back to Ohio//and die slowly, woken at night by cancer scars/and seizures." Indeed, several works in this collection are dedicated to Jason including the poem, "Heart-Shaped State" that explains, "Jason's cancer grew from/his skin towards his lymph nodes. We should have seen/the danger of sun and bare skin, but we knew//albinos die first in nature." As with many collections that focus on elegies, A Generation of Insomniacs also finds the narrator of these poems fighting losses about himself. In "Evolution," he depicts his own grief about the departure of a friend: "As you cry, I stand and search this secret crowd/for a space to remain a man." In another poem titled "Last Night of Childhood, Nearly Thirteen," the narrator laments the loss of youth when he returns "to the boy in the green bedroom/his name scribbled on the door above a series/of inches and dates." Yet, Frame's work is not without hope. Several poems celebrate hope in the face of loss including the concluding poem, "Flannel Love Poem With a Touch of Sky" where the narrator addresses his love: "I pull into our driveway, the sun/soon to rise. In front of me, the living room lamp/you left on all night to guide me home./Above me, the stars and the spring breeze/dancing with the bedroom window. And you, love--/wearing my old Nirvana shirt as a nightgown."For more information, see Frame's website or visiting Main Street Rag, the publisher of A Generation of Insomniacs.

I'm not a Johnstown girl -- but at heart, I am a Pennsylvania girl. Perhaps that is the number one reason why I loved Kathleen George's newest book, The Johnstown Girls. This novel follows the history of the Johnstown flood through the eyes of two reporters who are exploring the story of Ellen Emerson, a 103-year-old survivor of the flood who believes that her twin sister, who went missing during the flood, is somehow still alive.

While the main story line that weaves Ellen's current narrative with her memories of the past is a wonderful reflection about how we are all part of a bigger, more complex history, I found the two main characters, equally interesting. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reporters, Ben Bragdon and Nina Collins are investigating Ellen's story all the while engaging in a love affair that is leaving both characters exhausted and confused. Nina, especially, is a heartbreaking character, who does not want to get in the way of her lover's reportage of the story, yet feels a special bond with Ellen. When questioned by others in the story about her relationship with Ellen, she simply replies "We are both Johnstown Girls."There have been hundreds, if not thousands, of books and articles about the Johnstown Flood, and a reader will probably not find anything new about the historic tragedy. And that's okay. Instead, anyone opening the pages of The Johnstown Girls will find a quiet testimony about those who find the strength to survive even through the worst of tragedies.For more information, visit George's website where she talks a bit about the background of her newest book.

At the start of Trespasses, author Lacy M. Johnson explains her writing process of compiling her memoir by saying that she spent over sixty hours interviewing family members about their life stories. Then, according to Johnson, "At a certain point the facts got in the way of the truth." The line between what is truth and what is fact is always a fuzzy boundary, of course, and it's this fuzzy boundary that Johnson uses as a tool to explore her family's life in rural Missouri.

Johnson's story is not a chronological one. Instead, she chooses to trace the past through episodic scenes; many of them could be described as spots of time or specific transcriptions of memories. Through these snippets we see her parents' and grandparents' stories, stories that often brim with a rugged love of both family and land.

We also see Johnson's own stories . Not only does she record her own memories of growing up, we read quiet contemplations woven in between tales. Identity is the main focus of these contemplations, and indeed, class, race, and gender issues surface through many places in this book. For example, in one section, Johnson considers the meaning of white trash while recording her struggles at a major university. In another section, she discusses her frustration when someone tells her that the rural Midwest doesn't have "culture."

Like Johnson, I know what it is like to struggle with identity. I grew up in rural northern Pennsylvania, a place that cannot be defined by being part of the East Coast (our way of living is nothing like those who live in New York City or Philadelphia), yet we are not really part of the Midwest. Technically speaking, we are part of Northern Appalachia, which yes, is very different than Southern Appalachia -- so as you can see, I find identity a hard subject to examine, and Johnson's episodic exploration of the past is a stark look at the way we navigate our own personal histories. For more information about Trespasses, and other work by Lacy M. Johnson, visit her website.